


makes a cathedral, him pressing against me

by misandrywitch



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Fix-It, Post 4 x 11 Fix-It Fic, Violence, because I haven't been satisfied with any other descriptions of how it plays out so here this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-09
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-24 03:49:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1590608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misandrywitch/pseuds/misandrywitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian kisses the top of Mickey’s head again, his temple, the hollow of his throat below his Adam’s apple, his collarbone, the torn skin on his knuckles. He kisses him and feels, for the first time, that neither of them is really going anywhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	makes a cathedral, him pressing against me

They sit on the curb long enough for the cops to clear off, for the flask to empty, for the blood on Ian’s face to dry into a sticky crust and the pain in his ribs fade to a dull ache. They don’t say anything, just pass the flask back and forth until its empty and watch the remaining spectators of their spectacular fight filter out the door of the Alibi and into the night. He knows it’s silly, but Ian feels that if they leave or move or break the silence and the rhythm of passing the flask back and forth, fingers brushing, then none of it will be real, that he’ll wake up having dreamed it all and have to live today all over again. He’s felt like that a lot lately, since he got home.

It’s probably only been an hour but it feels much longer when Kev comes out of the bar, and frowns at them, and sighs.

“Get in the truck,” he says, “I’ll give you a ride. Don’t get any blood on the seats for God’s sake.”

They pull up in front of the Milkovich’s house, which is probably as dark and as quiet as Ian’s ever seen it, and Ian starts to get out of the car to follow Mickey inside when Kev catches his arm.

“Hey,” he says, “Don’t tell Vee about any of this shit, alright? Rather break the news that I let a brawl happen in our bar to her on my own. She isn’t gonna be happy.”

‘Yeah,” Ian says. “Of course. Don’t worry about it.”

“Take care of yourselves, right?” Kev says, and his face is uncharacteristically serious. Ian watches him start the engine and drive off before he turns and walks inside.

The lights are all off and Ian follows the sound of running water; Mickey is in the bathroom bent over the sink, a half-empty bottle of whiskey and a bottle of disinfectant open on the tile next to his feet. The water in the sink is pink already but there’s blood caked into Mickey’s hair, in the cut on his forehead and the bridge of his nose.

“Here, c’mere,” Ian shrugs off his jacket and then his shirt, which is covered in blood too. “I’ll clean it out, the cut, unless you want it to be worse tomorrow.”

“This ain’t my first fucking rodeo,” Mickey says, but he lets Ian turn him around and sit him down on the edge of the bathtub.

“One fucked up rodeo,” Ian wets a washcloth and starts dabbing at the cut on Mickey’s forehead as gently as he can. Bending from the waist sends a jolt of pain through his ribcage so he squats instead, putting his left hand on Mickey’s knee to steady himself. Everything is slightly blurry from the pain, from the whiskey and Mickey’s eyes look unfocused, dazed. Shocked, maybe, stunned. He concentrates on the cut on Mickey’s forehead, then the one on his nose. Mickey hisses when he touches it, digging his fingers into Ian’s elbow. Everything is blurry and numb but that feels solid, Mickey’s fingers on his skin.

It’s the only thing that hasn’t felt blurry, since he got home.

“That’s gonna bruise,” Mickey drops his hand from Ian’s elbow to brush his ribcage. “You’re gonna be black and blue.”

“I’ve had worse,” Ian shrugs. You’ve given me worse, he thinks, but he doesn’t say because that doesn’t matter now. Everything that’s happened, all of it, none of it matters now because they’re here. Somehow. There’s a moment of swelling lightness in Ian’s chest even underneath his bruised ribs and for a moment he doesn’t feel numb because he can’t really believe it, can’t believe what’s happened.

Mickey lets out a heavy breath, and then another, and then a third, faster. “Fuck,” he says, “fuck,” and drops his hand from Ian’s ribs, closes his eyes. Ian slides his hand around the back of Mickey’s head, cradling the back of his skull.

“Hey,” Ian says quietly. “Hey, Mickey. I’m here, it’s okay.” Mickey breathes out again and opens his eyes.

“You’ve got so much shit in your hair,” he says. “Look at us, huh? Big fucking mess.”

“Mickey—“ Ian says, then stops because he knows what he should say but he doesn’t know how to say it or if he even should. He knows he talks too much and Mickey has a hard time making what he thinks turn into words. Years and years of being told he shouldn’t. Ian’s mind jumps to his own family, Lip never telling him he was fucked up for hiding one kind of porn mag in the pages of another, Fiona’s sweetly exasperated support, Carl asking him, just this morning, “Is Mickey your boyfriend?” It already feels like that was a million years ago.

Ian can be the one to say things, he can do that. He doesn’t mind. He doesn’t have this heavy weight on his chest that Mickey has blocking his words—he imagines it like a stopper, like a dam. Cracked and cracking more all the time but still there. Tonight, Mickey ripped it open. It’s not gone, probably never will be. Ian carries his weights somewhere in his own ribcage, an unsteady blackness he tries to keep down. He can feel it pushing to get out, swelling from the inside out. He can talk, though. He can do that.

“What you did, I couldn’t have done that,” Ian says. “I couldn’t have. It was—it was incredible.”

Mickey snorts, and winces when he wrinkles his nose and the cut on it. “This from the guy who spends his working nights letting old men shove twenties down his pants.”

“Different kinda bar,” Ian concedes. “I’m not kidding, though. Hey.” His hand is still at the back of Mickey’s head and he runs his thumb along the spot where his skull meets his spine. His voice feels thick. “You are so good,” he says. “You’re brave. And I’m proud of you.”

Mickey stares at him for a moment and his face struggles to settle into an expression. “Alright,” he says weakly, “long as you leave the rainbow colored streamers at home.”

“Yeah sorry, forgot ‘em,” Ian says, “they’re at home with my parade floats and my ‘Mickey Milkovich is gay’ banner.”

Mickey laughs a little and then his chest hitches once, then twice, then again and again in quick succession and he’s blinking furiously and then he, unbelievably, starts crying. Mickey starts crying. The ugly, full body wracking, cathartic kind that wrings you out and leaves you feeling dizzy and empty. Ian pulls him closer and Mickey lets him, pulls his face up against his bare shoulder and wraps his arms around his back. His face is wet against Ian’s skin. Mickey slams his fist once or twice against Ian’s shoulder and then his fingers scrabble against his ribs and curl around the back of his shoulder blades. Ian presses his face into Mickey’s hair, even though its grimy, kisses the top of his head like he did in the street. We’ve come a long way, he thinks. A long fucking way.

Mickey pulls back brusquely from him an minute later, wipes furious at his eyes and stands up to turn on the shower. Steam fills the room and Mickey gets undressed and climbs in. Ian follows him a minute later, sticks his face into the spray. He can feel the blood and grime coming lose from the side of his face as he scrubs at it. Mickey turns around wordlessly and hands him the soap.

“You do have nice legs,” Ian says, and Mickey bursts out laughing.

“God, you’re such an idiot,” he says, but it’s affectionate and his eyes are soft. His fingers brush Ian’s ribs again, then his collarbone, then his chin. So Ian kisses him.

It’s soft and slow but not hesitant, not cautious. Mickey tastes like whiskey and cigarettes and Ian could stand here and kiss him forever, or at least until the water gets cold. All their kisses are always going somewhere, leading up to something or running from something. Dashing into and out of the door of a van, leading them to the backs of closets or beds or corners of bars. Always ushering in the next step—coming, leaving, fighting, sex. But this one isn’t. Ian kisses Mickey because they’re there, because they’re beat up and tired but alive and together. They’ve been running around in circles for a long time, running past each other and colliding and falling apart again. Ian kisses the top of Mickey’s head again, his temple, the hollow of his throat below his Adam’s apple, his collarbone, the torn skin on his knuckles. He kisses him and feels, for the first time, that neither of them is really going anywhere.

Ian scrubs the blood out of Mickey’s hair and wraps a towel around his own waist and collapses into Mickey’s bed, not bothering to put his filthy clothes back on. As soon as he lies down a wave of bone-deep tiredness hits him. It’s deeper than bone-deep, really, it seems to come from everywhere. From his guts and his skin and even his hair. It’s been a long day. It’s been a long day, a long week, a long year. Mickey slides in next to him, tugs his pillow back, rolls over, rolls back. He’s warm and Ian feels cold and tired, so he slides his fingers between Mickey’s bicep and his stomach, curls them around his waist. Mickey’s breathing sounds labored again, heavy and wet, so Ian moves closer, as close as he can.

They fit together, Mickey’s head under his chin. They didn’t used to.

“You are good,” Ian repeats what he said earlier because he knows that Mickey doesn’t believe it, doesn’t want to. “You’re a shithead but you’re good. And you do have nice legs.”

“You gonna yak my ear off for the rest of eternity or what?” Mickey mumbles into his chest. His breathing is more even, slower. Ian moves his hand, tracing circles on Mickey’s shoulder with his fingernail.

He’s tired, so tired, but he doesn’t let himself fall asleep yet. He keeps talking. “You’re fucking funny,” he says, “nobody makes me laugh like you do. You’re smarter than you think you are. Your sweet tooth is fucking adorable.”

“Ian, you are so gay,” Mickey mumbles.

“You’re better at shotgunning beers than anyone I’ve ever met,” Ian continues. “You’re a good kisser. You’re really, really good at taking it.” Mickey pinches his thigh but then he leaves his hand there. His fingers are warm too. Mickey isn’t good at saying things, but Ian doesn’t need him to be. He saw it in his eyes when Mickey stood up on the barstool and told the truth, saw it in the way he looked at Ian after. He feels it in his warm fingers on his leg and he doesn’t need to hear it out loud.

“You roll great cigarettes,” Ian keeps talking, listens to Mickey’s breathing and feels his head on his chest, a day’s growth of stubble against his collarbone. He needs to sleep so badly but he holds it off a few more minutes. Falling asleep will mean this night is over, will mean being swallowed by the consequences of their actions, will mean falling back into their lives; Fiona in jail and Mandy with bruises on her face and Frank in the hospital and his own, his own—

Ian’s been aware of the differences in himself since he came home, has largely chosen to ignore them because there have been so many other things to do, sunrises to see and trails to run and parties to go to. Lying here in the dark, it’s harder to pretend they aren’t there. It’s like feeling something land on his back, feeling hairy scuttling legs pulling on his t-shirt and knowing any minute something sharp and bloody-thirsty will jab itself into his neck. He knows it’s grotesque and desperate to get his claws in him. If he turns around, reaches behind him to brush it off it’ll mean it’s really there and not phantom scratchings on his spine. That it’s real. That it can really hurt him. He doesn’t reach for it. He’s scared to.

Mickey is asleep, wheezing gently against Ian’s chest through his busted up nose. He’ll worry about it tomorrow, Ian decides. He’ll stop moving for a moment and worry about it tomorrow. He pulls the covers up over his shoulders and over Mickey’s.

He covers up Mickey’s hand, beaten up knuckles over beaten up knuckles, laces his fingers through Mickey’s and kisses his shoulder. There isn’t anything between them but breath and skin and Ian holds onto Mickey’s hand in the dark, like Mickey is an anchor and he’s a storm-tossed ship, like Mickey is a tether and he’s a kite. 

**Author's Note:**

> title from 'saying your names' by richard siken. 
> 
> shittybknights.tumblr.com

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [and we will be like sailors, swimming in the sound of it](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1621775) by [punkpadfoot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkpadfoot/pseuds/punkpadfoot)




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